Love Throught Time
by ayie
Summary: Sakura had been caught swimming in the wild & turbulent surf, only to wash up on the shore lying in the arms of the most gorgeous hunk she'd ever seen but for her he was certifiably insane dressed in strange clothes & insisted the date was 1929!
1. Chapter 1

LOVE THROUGH TIME

CHAPTER ONE

Sakura Kinomoto sat on the sand and watched a silvery jet cross the horizon while the setting sun shadowed the water of the Atlantic. Early June's full moon peeped out of a fluffy, pink-tingled cloud. The sharp, cold breeze was filled with the tang of salt and spindrift.

She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and continued staring at the vast ocean. A large supertanker crept south along the horizon.

In her fist was a Cape May diamond, a stone occasionally found on the beach that could sparkle as brightly as the real thing now. The sharp corner of her slim wallet pinched her bottom and she shifted in the sand.

Her damp seat was the only part of her that could feel anything right now. Her thoughts were dull with fatigue. During the past two weeks she'd buried her father, mother and brother—her whole family.

They were on their way to the family summer home in Cape May when their lives were snuffed out by a drunken driver. When he had sideswiped them, their car spun out of control, careening off the road and hitting a concrete embankment head on. The drunken driver had suffered a cut on his forehead.

After the funeral, she'd told her father's attorney to handle everything. She'd signed over her power of attorney, and then retreated to the family's Victorian home by the sea. The same home where, after seven years' absence, they'd all planned to laugh and play and eat and spend time with each other. They'd declared two weeks of fun, each carefully arranging his vacation so the family could finally be together again.

Her father owned a paint manufacturing plant in Philadelphia, so it wasn't easy for him to juggle everything. Her mother was an attorney with a heavy schedule who used her free time to work as a consultant for two women's shelter in the state. Sakura's brother, Touya, had just completed a small but integral part in a movie and had been waiting for. He'd been so excited, so anxious to share every detail of his experience with his family.

They all had something to share. Once a very close-knit family, they had all wanted—needed to be together again for a while. They needed the contact with each other in order to continue alone in their chosen fields.

Her family was gone, but the extent of her loss was only now coming through to her. She awakened each morning thinking it was nothing but a bad dream. Her afternoons were spent with old photos and a thousand memories. Evenings were the times when she spoke to her family, saying all the things that should have been said and never were…

In the house behind her, they had always joined forces and regrouped, drawing from one another. Everywhere she turned, she saw them. She needed to get away from there in order to come to terms with the terrible truth. Her memories were too strong, too real. She found it hard to believe she was alone in the world. She was an orphan. She had no one now. She'd lost the only people she'd ever loved.

She clenched the stone in her hand and it cut into her palm. A sob caught in her throat. She wanted to die.

Not the violent death her parents and Touya had suffered. She wanted to escape. A quiet escape from all her feelings of loneliness and misery. She wanted to join her family and not be alone anymore.

The shadow lengthened.

An idea took root.

She'd been numb for the past two weeks. The numbness hadn't worn off yet, but she knew it would. Soon. And when it did, she'd fall apart like a badly made toy cracking into a thousand splintered pieces that would never fit together again.

She didn't want to be alive when it happened.

Knowing her thoughts didn't make sense, she smiled. Then, standing, she dusted the sand off the seat of her designer jeans. Still staring at the choppy sea, she began walking towards it. Water soaked her sneakers. Her socks. Her jeans.

Then she began swimming for the horizon. Salt water seeped into the cut in her hand, but she ignored it. It was nothing. Nothing compared to the pain in her soul.

When the shore was just a distant line, she rolled on her back and stared at the swiftly darkening sky. She'd done this so many times in the past, but never had she done it to escape something as awful as death. How strange, in escaping the tragic deaths of her family, she was running toward her own.

She watched the sky darken even more. Odd. She hadn't noticed that dark clouds were brewing. From the looks of the sky, the storm was going to be a beauty. She felt the first raindrops and closed her eyes.

She was ready.

Syaoran Li sipped champagne from a wide crystal glass as he surveyed the yacht's elite crowd.

His daddy—damn his soul—would say Syaoran was in the middle of easy pickin's.

He tapped his foot to the lively tune coming from a piano below the deck. The hollow heel of his shoe sounded full. It was. Not only had he won at poker earlier, but for a hefty price, he had supplied the boat's owner with the liquor the guests were drinking.

"Toot, toot, tootsie, good-bye," someone sang, accompanied by the piano, and Syaoran grinned. The song suited his circumstances. He had more money than he'd ever had in all his 33 years, and it was all in the name of his work as a journalist. As scary as his undercover work had been over the past year, at least the rewards were great. And there was more to come, he was sure, once his story was published by his newspaper and the members of the mob were exposed for being the trash they were.

It hadn't been easy infiltrating that crowd. A year a dirtying himself with their laundry, and still he'd been asked to prove himself by getting the liquor for this trip.

He'd risked his life to coerce the fishing boat crew from Puerto Rico to turn over their stash of liquor to him instead of their regular mob contact. With limited Spanish and more derring-do than he'd ever thought he had, he'd convinced them he had been sent by the mob and talked them into a deal. When he had the liquor, he was heady with excitement. He'd done it! Considering the Prohibition laws, no mob member could turn booze without exposing himself at the same time.

He shot a devilish grin at Clair, the beautiful blonde gripping the brass railing. A still breeze blew her hair into enchanting disarray, and molded her lightly patterned georgette dress against her bountiful breasts and delicious hips. Clair smiled obviously remembering the past night's stolen kisses.

A good-size wave slapped hard against the hull, and the boat jerked. One quick look at the sky proved a storm was approaching. Syaoran hoped they would make it to the dock before the rain struck.

Clair's bear of a husband stood beside her. He was a solid man, at least25 years older than his wayward wife. Although he ran speakeasies in New York and Atlantic City, everyone knew he didn't do much of anything anymore. He played poker all morning, ate a sumptuous lunch, and then drank whiskey until he was practically blind.

No wonder Clair had been such an easy mark. A year ago Syaoran had crashed a party in New York, and she'd been there. His focus had been her husband Stoney, but she'd made it plain she wanted Syaoran's attention. She was starving for love and had fallen into his hands like warm dough. She needed a man in her bed and he'd needed entree into her social sphere she could expose it. He couldn't turn down a connection like that, so he hadn't instead, he took advantage of her associations and became a member of that elite group—such as it was. It was fair exchange.

Syaoran observed the guests. Mostly they were oiled and rich—people who knew nothing about saving money, taking care of parents or children, or worrying about living from skimpy paycheck to skimpier paycheck, let alone no paycheck at all. For him, however, this three-day trip was the best luck he'd had in ages. His investigation was almost finished, and if his living expenses didn't eat up what cash he managed to make, he'd even walk away from that crowd with a little money. That was okeydokey with him. Just an hour ago he'd been gloating in his cabin, counting his poker winnings, and hiding the cash in the heel of his left shoe. All he needed for personal satisfaction was to win some money from Clair's husband, making his trip complete before the yacht docked in Cape May at nightfall.

The pianist drifted into the brad-new song. The tune mingled with the conversation buzzing around Syaoran.

The voyage from Cape May to New York City and back was strictly for the purpose of drinking and gambling in privacy. Syaoran was using it to cement a few more relationships with the mob and learn who their rich friends were from talkative friends outside the loop. And every trip and party added one more piece of information to put the mob away for good.

Ever since Prohibition had begun nine years ago, parties like that one had become common place, and the crowd was usually a mixed bag. Gangsters, wealthy names from the registers of New York and Philadelphia society, and hangers-on—all completed for space at the bashes.

Syaoran drifted towards Clair and her husband. "Well, Stoney," he drawled, deliberately baiting the man. "I see you're well on your way to blotting out the evening. It's a shame you're too drunk for a lively game of cards. I should have asked you before lunch, when you were sober."

Stoney stared blankly at him. Then he gazed into his drink. Slowly, with careful, calculated steps, he walked away, disappearing down the stairs to the luxurious cabins below.

"You shouldn't have done that, you know." Clair brushed a wisp of hair from her carmine mouth.

Hiding his disappointment, Syaoran shrugged. He had hoped to goad the drunken man into playing cards. There were two men at the card table in the lounge that might be willing to speak a little more freely if Stoney was at the table. "The shape he's in, I didn't think he could tell an insult from a compliment."

"He can. He's just depressed lately."

Although Clair sounded like an understanding wife, she looked as if she didn't give a damn one way or the other. A seductive smile tinged her lips, and her eyes devoured him. Last night had been an evening of flirting and kissing, and she'd wanted him desperately.

"He's rich. He can afford to be kind," Syaoran muttered. "I can't."

"No, but you want to be what he is."

Syaoran smiled back. It was easy to go along with a lie. He'd been doing it for the past year. "I wanted to play a hand of cards with him. That's all."

"You wanted to win," she said softly. "But if you suddenly need money so badly, why are you here?" she glanced around at other couples lounging on deck. "You could lose your shirt playing with these high rollers."

Suddenly wary, Syaoran took a sip from his glass. "I was invited."

"By our esteemed host?"

"Of course."

"How nice for you," she purred. "Then why did he ask me for your name at breakfast?"

"Because he forgot." It was a good thing they were docking soon. He didn't know how much longer he could keep fielding Clair's questions.

"Mr. Warren and I are business associates."

"Funny, I've never known you to do any business with him before. What kind of business?"

He nodded towards her iced drink. "You're drinking it."

Clair moved closer and her fingers trailed down his tie. "I haven't seen you in over three months, so I didn't know you were a workingman now. If it's money you're after, why not get it from me?"

"How?" he asked bluntly.

She wet her lips and he followed the movement of her tongue. "I need liquor delivered to our house for a party in two weeks. Stoney is entertaining some…business associates from Chicago. Can you arrange it?"

"Sure. That's easy," he lied, feeling his bowtie bob against his Adams's apple and hoping she didn't notice it. He'd practically broken his neck to get this shipload, all for his story. The New Jersey mob would really be angry if he did it twice. They weren't exactly friendly people, and if he hoped to live to see his story hit the news-stands, he'd better be extremely careful.

"I'll make sure there are plenty of extras in it for you," her eyes drifted up to his, her idea of reward apparent in her expression.

"What about Stoney? Doesn't he do his own arranging?"

"Not if he can help it. Stoney hasn't been feeling well lately. Besides, I handle the money when it comes to things like this. He doesn't like… details." A feral smile lit her eyes. For the first time he noticed they were too close together.

Just as he was about to open his mouth, the floor vibrated and a roaring sound shattered the air around them. He felt the impact through the soles of his shoes and in his eardrums. The crowd on deck looked all around for the source of the noise.

Clair's face turned ashen, her eyes widened in fright. Syaoran held out a hand as if to steady her. She looked as if she was about to faint.

"Clair? Are you all right?"

"Dear, sweet heaven, he did it." Her voice was a whisper. "He really did it."

"Who? Stoney? What did he do?"

Hands crashed discordantly against piano keys. Suddenly people from below deck, wailing something about sinking.

Clair gasped, then screamed.

Syaoran stared at those around him, unable to understand what they were saying.

The boat rocked. With a high-pitched screech of tearing wood, it listed aft.

Screams echoed in the air. Confused, Syaoran reached for the rail. He still wasn't sure what was happening, but he felt the panic of the other passengers washing over him. A loud squeal rent his ear. People began skidding, sliding, and tumbling towards him, their faces assuming various masks of stark terror.

His mind wanted to deny what his eyes saw, but it was impossible. He watched people clutching furniture, rails, or masts as they were tossed around. For Syaoran, everything was into slow motion. He glanced back to where Clair had been standing. She was gone.

Then realization hit him. In shock and terror, he felt the icy Atlantic Ocean swell over the brass rail. A flying table was coming straight at his head and instinct made him duck.

His last word echoed in the evening salt breeze as he slid into the cold, choppy water.

"Damn!"

The storm came up quickly. Rain pelted Syaoran's head and shoulders. His fingers were numb with cold, cramping into claws around a few two-by-fours still nailed together. The small raft wasn't big enough for him to sit on. But as long as he didn't panic and drown himself, it was just large enough to keep him afloat.

He didn't know how long he'd been in the water. It had to be hours. It seemed like days. He forced his legs into another scissors kick.

Where in the hell was everybody? Somebody besides one whiskey-running impostor had to be imitating flotsam on this damn ocean!

He'd yell every few minutes or so, but there had been no answer. He took a deep gulp of air and prayed he wouldn't drown in the rain. Come to think of it, he didn't want to drown in the sea either. He wanted to live. Damn! He wanted to live!

That thought spurred another kick. He prayed he was headed towards shore and not out to sea.

A wave swamped him, pulling him under the cold water for a long moment. Just as he surfaced and took another gulp of air, something slammed into the back of his head.

His next-to-last thought was that at least his left shoe was still on his foot. His last thought was that he was a stupid fool for thinking about his shoe at such a time.

A stupid fool…

The storm lashed at Sakura, swirling her around in the sea. As the waves swelled and crashed over her head, she realized one startling fact: she wanted to live.

Fighting to keep her nose above water, she continued swimming toward what she thought was the shore. She couldn't be sure because the sight of land was obliterated by rain and darkness. Every breath hurt, and everywhere she looked, she saw water. She was beginning to believe that all the earth was covered with water and that there was no land. All she saw was the full moon scudding between dark clouds.

Her arms arched, her legs ached. Her throat was sore from dragging air into her tired lungs. Still, she fought the sucking water. But it wouldn't let her go. Instead, it circled her, forming a whirlpool that twirled her around and around. Frantically, she kicked her legs, trying to escape from the water's pull.

"Dear God, no! I didn't mean it! Help me! I didn't—" The whirlpool gained force, swirling even faster and forming an even deeper vortex. She prayed for her life, knowing that she was facing death.

Suddenly, thunder crashed around her, vibrating through the water. Then, just as suddenly, the noise stopped and the whirlpool dissipated. Inch by inch, she rose up to the water's surface, swirling around the board wall of the whirlpool instead of being in the center of it. She gave a sigh of relief since she just had to contend with the storm itself. Her resolve returned. She would make it if she had to float to Europe for two weeks!

Something scraped against her back. She screamed, then grabbed for it as another wave threatened to engulf her. A splinter dug into her palm. It was wood. Wood! She almost laughed. Squinting against the rain, she stared at the crude but effective life raft. A length of dark material was wrapped around it. An arm. She held on. A male arm. It was too muscled for a female. Was he alive?

There was no time to think or reason. With the last of her strength, Sakura clung to the piece of lumber. She might still have a chance of surviving.

The man groaned and his grip slipped. She covered his hand, helping to anchor it to the flimsy piece of wood. She could do nothing more. She had very little strength left.

Then everything went black.

Wearily, Sakura opened her eyes and tried to focus them in the dim light. The first thing she saw was a crab scuttling sideways on the grayish-white sand. She watched it distractedly while trying to remember what she was doing there.

Had she fallen asleep on the beach? The last thing she remembered was…

The ocean.

The storm.

The man!

She tried pulling herself up but every muscle in her body protested. Finally, she made it to all fours and searched for the man she'd found clutching a piece of battered ship wood. The same piece of wood that had saved her life.

He was no more than three feet away, his head resting next to where her feet had been. The scrap of wood that had saved them served as his pillow. Lying on his side, he was still clutching the wood tightly.

His hair was glued to his head. His suit—what she could see of it— was a mess. And he was wearing only his left shoe.

He groaned and Sakura found enough strength to crawl over to him. Then she plopped back on the sand and stared at his face. Her eyes widened. Strong cheekbones and a jaw the modeling industry would kill for. He was drop dead gorgeous.

Gently, she touched his throat, sighing in relief when she felt his pulse. It was strong and regular. Then she studied the rest of him.

He was in the craziest suit and shirt she'd ever seen. It looked like something out of an old movie.

Where in heaven's name had he been? A costume party?

He groaned again.

"Wake up," she said, bending close to his sand covered ear. She shook his shoulder. "Wake up, buddy. We made it."

"Ohhh," he groaned again, then closed his eyes and rolled back onto his back.

She took a good look at him. He had to be at least six feet tall, and he looked well built. "That's the stupidest suit I've ever seen," she muttered, unable to hide a grin.

That comment got his attention. He opened his eyes and stared down his body. "You have no sense of style." His voice was low and hoarse. "It's the latest from London."

Her grin turned into a chuckle. "Well, who am I to say what a London tailor can do to a tourist?"

He didn't answer.

Sakura leaned back and stared at the ocean, her gaze scanning the clouds for any sign of the terrible storm they had just weathered. Instead, there were small puffs of pink clouds skimming a dark blue sky. Dawn was just breaking.

As if there hadn't been a long silence between them, the man moved a leg, and then grunted. "You're just jealous, that's all." He moved his other leg. "Tell me. Is my left shoe on?

He sounded so concerned. She stared at him. Apparently he'd had much rougher time of it than she had.

"Is it? He demanded.

Sakura peered at his feet. "Yes."

He lifted his head and looked down, then let his head plop back on the sand again. "Thank God." His expression was filled with relief.

"You're right one is in the sea, though. It certainly didn't come to shore with us."

"I don't care about the right one. It's the left one that counts."

She cocked her head. Was he insane? Was he hurt more than she thought? Then she remembered something she had read about Vietnam veterans. "Are you wearing prosthesis?" she asked softly.

He frowned. His eyes opened and stared at her for a long moment. "Prosthesis?"

"Yes. You know, a plastic leg."

"A plastic leg?" his gazed searched her face, then her form. Then he locked gazes with her once more. "I beg your pardon?"

"Do you have a wooden leg?" she asked loudly, irritation edging her vice. "For heaven's sake, don't tell me that your good sense was knocked out of you in that storm we just rode out."

"Storm?"

"Storm. S.T.O.R.M."

"Were you on the Mary Anna, too?"

Relief coursed through her. He wasn't an idiot. He'd obviously been abroad a boat, maybe a cruise ship, on which they had costume parties. And the storm had either washed him overboard or had sunk the boat. That information helped Sakura make sense of the way he'd been hugging that piece of wood so tightly.

"Yes," she said, unwilling to tell this stranger the real reason she'd been in the ocean during a storm. "Did you get hit on the head? Do you hurt anywhere?"

With studied precision, he tested his fingers, then flexed his legs. When they worked satisfactorily, he rolled over and sat up, arching his shoulders. "No," he finally answered. "How about you ma'am?"

Sakura smiled relief. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized that she'd smiled twice in the past five minutes, something she hadn't done in two weeks. "I'm fine. Just a little sore and bruised, that's all."

She held out her hands and arms, turning them over to check for large scratches. Then she remembered that she had cut her hand just before she walked into the ocean. Looking carefully, she searched her palm. There was no cut. No remnant of a cut. Nothing.

The man brought her attention back to the present. "Where are we?" He glanced around, then searched the shoreline. "Are we alone here?"

"As far as I can tell. By he way, my name's Sakura. What's yours?" she asked as she stretched her back and legs carefully. Finding that everything worked properly, she began her own survey of the land and sea. Nothing but sand and water was visible from their location. They couldn't be far from civilization. Perhaps just over that dune there was a highway.

"Um, Syaoran," he answered, then muttered, "All those people…" his sentence was unfinished, but Sakura could imagine the rest of it.

"They might have landed somewhere else. We got caught in some kind of a whirlpool I think. Maybe we were carried farther away than they were."

He looked boyish hopeful. "Do you think so?"

She nodded.

With conscious movements, the man stood. He was even taller than Sakura had envisioned.

"Are you fit to travel, ma'am? I've got to get back to Cape May."

She placed her gritty palm in his and felt his strength as he pulled her to her feet. Self-consciously, she dropped his hand and stared down at the sand. Although she was tingling after touching him, he'd built a wall between them just by using the word ma'am. After her own ordeal these past two weeks, she wasn't sure she wanted that wall to crumble.

"Let's go," she said. It took several steps before Sakura realized that her newfound companion wasn't following. She turned and stared at him, her hands on her hips. "Well?"

"You're wearing work pants."

"I'm wearing designer jeans," she corrected.

His look held a touch of disgust. "You're shoes are funny."

"No more funny than you look, standing there in a suit belonging to some dead gangster and wearing one shoe," she retorted. "Are we going to argue the merits of today's fashion and yesterday's or get to the nearest town? If we find a road, we might be able to hitch a ride. There's bound to be a highway over the rise."

"Highway?" He tilted his head as if displaying doubt concerning her sanity. "Like a high-road?"

She rested her hand on his arm, feeling the muscle clench at her throat. It doesn't matter," Sakura said soothingly. "We'll get to Cape May one way or another."

Those beautiful amber eyes stared into hers and she could see the confusion there. She also saw the appreciation. He likes her looks—he just didn't like her choice of clothes. Tough.

She smiled. "Ready?"

He sighted, fingering the bump on the back of his head. "I think we ought to walk along the beach. It will take us to Cape May Point."

"If that's where we are. But there might be road just over the rise."

"I want to walk the shore," he stated stubbornly. "We've got a better chance of seeing

someone."

She opened her mouth to argue, but remembered she was talking to a man in an old suit and one shoe. Obviously, walking along the shore was a matter of pride.

"Okay. I understand. After all, you really do look like you might be half a bubble off."

He acted as if he hadn't heard her, when she knew darn well he had. "What?" he asked at last.

She spoke a little louder. "That's fine! Let's go!"


	2. Chapter 2

LOVE THROUGH TIME

CHAPTER TWO

The storm had churned up the seabed, scattering seaweed and driftwood along the beach as far as the eye could see. While Syaoran looked at every piece of wood they came across, Sakura searched the dunes for the shape of a body. Syaoran was right. He couldn't be the only who survived. Perhaps they would run across someone else who needed help.

It was an hour before they saw the outline of a ship on the horizon—the only sign of life they'd seen since beginning their trek.

Sakura shielded her eyes. "Do you recognize it?"

"There are only a thousand or so yachts making their way between Atlantic City and Cape May. Why shouldn't i?"

"You may be cute, but you sure have a mouth on you," Sakura commented, dropping her hand and beginning to walk along the beach again."

"And you are just plain weird," he answered. "You wear men's clothes and odd shoes. And you speak in words unfamiliar to the East Coast—or the West Coast for the matter. I know. I took the train out there a few years ago."

A train? My, my. But he'd made and interesting, if incorrect observation. "What makes you say that?"

"Because only dockworkers wear that fabric. It's too coarse for most women. And those shoes look clumsy."

"Boy, talk about being behind the times!" Sakura exclaimed. "These are the best running shoes money can buy! As for my jeans, they're designer jeans. I don't know a single women left in the world who doesn't have at least one pair in her closet."

"I doubt it." Syaoran's derision hurt. "You're obviously demented. Someone must have opened the asylum door and let you out."

"No one had to let me out. And you're alive because of me."

"Well, if you think your clothes are the cat's pajamas, think again miss. Are you in the picture business? Those people consider weird ways of dressing."

Sakura laughed. "Like Cher and some of the others? No, I'm afraid not. Although my brother just finished a part in a movie."

Syaoran's expression was disapproving. "My sister wants to be in the moving pictures, but she doesn't know what she's doing. She just does whatever her boyfriend tells her to do."

The hair on the back of her neck rose. The phrase moving pictures hadn't been used for years. "Why do you call them moving pictures?"

"Because that's what they are. What do you call them?"

"Movies, show, films. I don't know anyone who calls them moving pictures."

He shrugged. "I guess it depends on what part of the country you come from."

"Where are you from"

"I live in New York. I'm down here for a vacation."

"I'm from Philadelphia," Sakura returned dryly. "In case you New Yorkers don't remember that's only an hour away by train."

"Two," he stated absently, his eyes grazing the shoreline once more.

"More or less."

"What part did your brother play in the pictures?" he asked as an afterthought. Obviously, his mind was somewhere else.

Sakura answered anyway. "He played a gangster in Al Capone's time. He was the crooked attorney from the mob."

"Say that again?"

Confused, she complied. "He played a crooked attorney for the mob."

"Al Capone's mob?"

"Yes." She didn't understand his sudden interest, so she guessed. 'Is your sister in that movie? Is that it?"

"Sakura, or whatever your name is. You must be mistaken. No one in his right mind would try to do a picture about Al Capone. They'd be dead in a minute. Sweet bejesus, haven't you ever heard of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre? Just last February they killed seven of their own. They don't give a damn whose lives they snuff out."

He was curious. Her smile slowly slipped from her face. The hair on the back of her neck stood up again. "Syaoran. What year do you think this is?" she asked gently.

He gave an impatient wave of his hand, as if dismissing the question as not worthy of an response. But he answered it anyway. "It's 1929."

She froze. Her feet refused to take another step until her mind figured out how much danger she was in. obviously the man had escaped one of the hospital in the area. Good looks or no, he was insane, which made him someone to be wary of.

"Sakura?"

Her gaze focused on him. He looked so normal. He also looked concerned.

"she smiled. "Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Ready?" she began trudging down to the edge of the water with more bounce in her steps. No sense letting him know she was worried, hell-she was scared!

Two minutes later, his hand grabbed her arm. "Slow down! This isn't a damn race, you know."

Her heart jump to her throat and her chest. "Sorry. I'm just anxious to get home."

"Well, if you live in Philadelphia, you won't be getting home anytime soon."

For a moment, she'd forgotten about her little Victorian house in Cape May. Good. At least she had kept her address a mystery. "I guess you're right."

"I've got a room here, if you need it. It's behind the Grand Hotel in a boardinghouse, but it's clean and private."

"How did you arrange that?" She asked, hoping to distract him.

"Mrs. Timmers, the landlady, is an old friend of my mother's. they knew each other before they married."

Sakura had to be careful. She didn't want to trigger any unwanted emotions, but she needed to keep Syaoran talking. That way his mind would be occupied with other things beside her. "Where is your mother now?"

It was a long moment before he answered. "She's living with her younger sister in the Bronx. She doesn't know anyone anymore. She just sits by the window all day and stares out at people walking by. The doctor calls it brain rot."

Sakura knew all about it. Her aunt Crissie was in a nursing home with the small illness.

"Alzheimer's," she murmured.

"What was that?"

"The name of the disease you mother has."

His lip curled in scorn. "And how would you know what the doctors don't?"

"I have a relative with the same disease. That's what it's called," she stated quietly. "I'm sorry. I know it has to be hard on you and your family."

"The family, as you call it, is just my aunt, me, and my sister now."

"What happened to your father?"

"None of your business," he said coldly.

For a man who thought he was in 1929, he seemed remarkably cogent. She wanted to ask more questions, but the distant look on his face silenced her.

The sun got hotter. It beat down on them with savage ferocity. It was one of those hot June days that came once or twice a summer. Sakura glanced sideways at Syaoran. His jacket looked hot and heavy, but he didn't seem to notice. It only proved to Sakura that the man had a loose screw. Anyone else would make himself as comfortable as possible for a long walk in that heat. They didn't even know where they were, for heaven's sake.

She stared straight ahead, willing her mind not to panic. Surely, they would come across someone, something soon. After all, the New Jersey coastline wasn't that sparsely inhabited. And when they did, she'd be safe from this good-looking maniac.

She stared ahead at the distant shoreline, promising God many things if He would let her find a person, a building, a town. Safely. But all she saw was a log just a little way from the shoreline, the water lapping at one end. Suddenly, the log moved.

Her eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun, she watched the long dark object. From this distance, it still looked like a log—then a branch rose up and feebly waved.

Syaoran saw it move, too. "Come on!" he cried, breaking into a run towards the log, his one shoe leaving deep prints in the damp sand.

Sakura ran right behind him.

The log turned into a person with wet sand covering most of his or her body. The closer Sakura came, the more she saw. It was a female, and she was up to her shoulder in water.

Sakura reached her side just seconds after Syaoran. He knelt in the sand and pushed wet hair from the woman's face. "It's Clair! Sweet Lord, it's Clair!" he said, pulling her limp torso into his lap.

The woman wasn't breathing. Her chest wasn't moving; her face was blue tingled.

"My God, she'd dead!"

"She's got water in her lungs," Sakura stated. "She needs CPR." Pulling the woman from him, Sakura rolled her over onto the sand until she was flat on her back.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Syaoran asked angrily.

Sakura forgot she wasn't supposed to aggravate this man. She forgot everything except that just minutes ago the woman must have been breathing or she wouldn't have been able to raise her arm. "Trying to save her, you idiot! If you can't help, at least keep out of my way!" she began administering CPR, rhythmically pressing on the woman's heart, counting one, two, three, four, five.

"She's already dead!"

Sakura ignored him. The man must have lived in a box—or a mental institution—if he hadn't heard of CPR. She tilted the woman's head and began the kiss of life, pushing air into her lungs. Then she repeated the series of movements.

Suddenly Clair coughed, then choked. Sakura sat up, holding the woman's head as she spewed out salt water like a fountain. She waited a moment, holding her own breath as she watched Clair return from the dead. A feeling of exuberance flowed through her. She wanted to scream and dance at the same time. She'd taken CPR technique. Now, she'd just saved a woman's life. She'd actually saved her!

Leaning over, Syaoran pulled the woman back into his arms. "My God, I don't believe it," he muttered, looking at Sakura strangely. "How did you know how to do that?"

"I trained at work."

Clair's eyes fluttered, then opened. It took a moment for her to focus on the man holding her. "Syaoran?"

"Yes, Clair. You're alive! I didn't think anybody had made it except us. Thank God, we found you." He brushed back her hair, touching her face. One side was red from the sun, while the other was covered with sand.

"I thought I died," she sighted.

Syaoran gazed down the beach. "I wonder how many others made it."

Clair tried feebly to sit up, then stared around her. "I did make it, didn't I?" her voice was barely a whisper. She held her throat. "It hurts."

"Beside that, are you all right?" Syaoran's voice held concern. "Can you walk?"

"I don't know," she croaked, her hand twining around Syaoran's arm. "Stay with me. Don't leave me. Please."

"I'm not going anywhere. I promise." He held her up while she took several deep breaths.

His tone was so soothing, so gentle that Sakura stared at him in wonder. Right now the man seemed like the most sane, sensible person in the world. And apparently this woman, Clair, knew him.

Clair raised her head and stared at Syaoran. Her eyes glazed with tears. "Stoney did this, Syaoran. He shot a hole in the boat and then turned the gun on himself."

"You don't know that, Clair."

She nodded. "Yes, I do. He threatened to do it so many times I didn't pay attention anymore. And he finally did it. I think he must have planned it. He had that big shotgun in our stateroom."

"You don't know that he blew up the boat for a fact."

She nodded again, her hand at her throat. "And you goaded him. You and I both did."

Syaoran's face closed. "I don't know a damn thing about that. And neither do you. So don't say another word."

Obviously, Clair wanted to argue the point. Then, as she stared into Syaoran's eyes, all the fight ebbed from her. "All right."

Silently, Syaoran stood up and pulled Clair up to lean against him. For the first time Clair looked at Sakura. Then she held fast to Syaoran.

He read her question. "She was on the boat, too."

Clair shook her head in denial.

"I was one of the maids," Sakura said, backing up her lie. Until she had figured out what had happened to her, she wasn't going to tell these two anything.

Clair seemed to accept the falsehood. In fact, from that point on, Sakura felt she'd just been placed beneath the woman's concern. Clair completely ignored her.

Syaoran never even bothered to look at Sakura. His arms closed around Clair as they took one slow step after another along the edge of the water, and Sakura dragged five or six steps behind.

She remembered how still and stiff Clair had looked and her heart went out to the woman. No wonder she didn't pay attention to Sakura. Good grief, she'd just returned from the dead! By all rights, she should be in an ambulance and on her way to the hospital. If they didn't find civilization soon, they might all die of starvation and overexposure to the sun.

She licked her dry lips. Were there more like Clair and Syaoran around? If Clair was to be believed, the ship had sunk because of Stoney, whoever he was, and so far, these were the only two survivors. Sakura continued searching the shoreline, but saw nothing resembling a human.

Every now and then, Syaoran stopped and Clair would sink wearily into the wet sand, her head hanging almost to her lap. Sakura was as tired. Heat, hunger, and thirst were beginning to take her toll. It had been a long night for all of them.

The surf roared in her ears and Sakura wondered hoe she could have ever been foolish enough to think of ending her life. More than anything right now, she wanted to be home, in her own bed. She didn't care if she cried for her parents and her brother. They would want her to live.

"Sweet heavens," Clair moaned.

Clair and Syaoran had stopped, and Sakura came to their sides. She followed their gaze, spying what they had seen.

A pale turquoise wooden lawn chair was turned upside down in the sand.

"I was sitting on a chair just like that one before Stoney joined us on the deck," Clair croaked.

"It's not your fault," Syaoran said.

"I should have listened to him. All those people are dead because of me. So mnay…"

"You made it," Syaoran stated softly. "I made it. Sakura made it. The chair made it. There are more. You'll see."

They trudged past the chair, skirting it ass through it was a dead body. Sakura kept her eyes glued to the beach ahead. When she saw a dim, boxlike shape peeping over one of her larger sand dunes, her heartbeat picked up it's pace. Her eyes widened. It was a roof! It had to be.

She wanted to shout, to laugh, but neither of her companions had noticed the dark outline yet. What if she was wrong? She didn't want to raise their hopes only to dash them if she was mistaken. Meanwhile, she kept her eyes on the structure.

Slow step by painfully step, she watched the roof take shape. Just as she watched the roof takes shape. Just as she was about to say something, Syaoran turned in that direction.

"You saw it?" Sakura asked.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Because it makes the journey seem longer when it's so far away."

Clair was in another world. She continued staring at the ground, trudging along as Syaoran practically carried her over the dunes.

The roof belongs to a weathered cottage, no more than two or three rooms, with a large over-hang shading the front from the sun. The way the shade fell right now, Sakura surmised it was one or two o'clock in the afternoon.

They went up the steps and Syaoran banged on the door with his fist. Nothing happened. "Hello!" he shouted. "Is anyone home?"

Still no answer.

With a strong push of his shoulder, he forced open the door and carried Clair into the darkness. Sakura followed, praying there was fresh water—cool, fresh water.

The house was almost as hot as outside. Shuttered windows and closed doors blocked the breeze. Going directly to the back door, Sakura propped it open with a chair, then did the same with the door they had just entered. With her last ounce of energy, she threw back the shutters.

Syaoran carried Clair to the bedroom off the main area and placed her on the bare mattress. When he stood, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He had walked with Clair, bearing her weight for at least five miles. After his night in the ocean, he had a right to be exhausted.

Her feet dragging, Sakura moved towards the kitchen. There had to be running water somewhere.

She found it in the form of an old-fashioned pump that spewed water into a crude metal bucket. She gave it a few jerks, but nothing happened. She felt so damn helpless! Tears formed, threatening to spill down her cheeks.

Then Syaoran was beside her, grabbing the bucket and walking out the door. "Stay here and rest," he ordered. "I'll get water to prime the pump."

Sakura leaned against the wall, rested her head on her arms, and closed her eyes. Priming the pump. Of course, she'd heard the expression—usually in regard to money—but she never thought anyone actually did it. Apparently, they did.

Moments later, Syaoran was back. He poured sea water down the top and began pumping the handle. Suddenly, water gushed out.

With a groan, Sakura cupped her hands and drank, uncaring that the water spilled all over. After drinking, she rubbed water over her heated face and neck, then spread it on her hot arms.

Syaoran repeated her actions and when he finished, he slicked back his hair and sighted in satisfaction. "Find a glass."

If she'd been herself, Sakura would have told him what he could do with his orders. But he'd primed the pump and she was too tired to argue. Opening the only cabinet in the room, she found one crockery mug and gave it to him.

He filled the mug and left the room. Parries knew he was giving it to Clair. At least someone was thinking. She was too numb to do more than react instinctively.

She slid down to the floor and dropped her head on her bent knees. Instead of falling asleep, her mind relived those horrible moments of last night, when she'd thought she was truly drowning.

And she had lived! She thought of all those other people partying on the yacht who had presumably died. But she had lived. And now she felt guilty for living.

A sob caught in her throat. She lifted her head, squeezing her eyes shut so tears couldn't fall. This wasn't the time. Not now. She had to get back to civilization, get rid of the good-looking masculine mental case and the woman who knew Stoney well enough to know he'd blown up the boat. Maybe they were all mental cases—a whole boat full!

She didn't realize Syaoran was in the kitchen until he pulled her up and locked her in his arms. Suddenly, she didn't care that he might be crazy. Right now, she needed the solace that could come only from the living. Once more tears started to fall, and this time she couldn't stop sniffling.

"We made it, tootsie. Don't cry," he soothed, his hands rubbing up and down her back. "We made it. Right now, that's all that matters. We'll worry about why later."

Sakura was unable to keep the sobs from forming, but she refused to give them utterance. She would not cry! Instead, she clung to his shoulders as she had held on to the waterlogged boards in the middle of the ocean.

Syaoran pulled away and stared down at her. "I keep asking, but I need to know. Are you all right?"

She nodded, biting her lip.

"Good girl." He let her go, and the air felt cool after the living warmth of his touch. "I'm going to take a look around outside. If I'm right, we shouldn't be more than a quarter of a mile or so from Clair's place. That means that we're less than a mile from town."

Hope replaced her earlier misery. "Are you sure?"

"No, but the landscape looks familiar. It's worth a try."

For the first time she noticed the lines of exhaustion etched around his mouth and eyes. He was dead on his feet, yet he found strength enough to comfort both women.

Too tired to keep up barriers, she placed her hand against his day-old beard, enjoying the scratchiness against her palm. "What can I do to help?"

"Watch Clair. I can't tell if she's hurt or if she's so exhausted she's disoriented."

"Okay." It was the least she could do.

His amber eyes stared into hers, and for just a moment, she was swept away to another, more protected world. He must have seen the longing on her face because he drew her to him. A contentment she hadn't felt in years washed over her and she snuggled closer. His arms tightened as if he was enjoyed her closeness as much as she did his.

Then she felt him stiffen. Suddenly he was gone, walking out the door and down the steps to the sand. She felt bereft, but was too tired to analyze the feeling.

It took Sakura several minutes to move towards the small bedroom. The springs squeaked as she lowered herself to the edge of the bed. Clair moaned and rolled to her side.

She was a pretty woman with high cheek bones and clear skin. At least her skin looked as if it would be clear once the thin film of sand and dirt was washed away. Sakura knew the sunburned side of her face would blister and peel. Her figure was excellent beneath the tattered, saltwater-stiffened dress. It was hard to tell the color of her hair, but Sakura thought it had a hint of brass in it. That meant bleached blonde.

Determined not to fall asleep until Syaoran returned, she looked around the room. One smell window high under the eaves shed dim light into he room. The clapboard exterior was probably the only insulation against the elements. The interior walls were made of thin one-by-fours. The floor, complete with sand, was also wooden.

Other than the iron double bed and a small table, there was nothing else in the room. Not even a closet. The table stood on spindly legs and held one drawer. In an effort to keep herself awake, Sakura pulled it open. Inside was a folded newspaper that looked fairly new.

She pulled it out and opened it up. It was an Atlantic City paper. The headline proclaimed that Leon Trotsky was expelled from the USSR. There was a large ad for a circus on the Steel Pier.

Sakura stared at the back letters, unable to completely absorb the words. She glance at the date—June 5, 1929.

It was a fluke. A joke. It was crazy!

It was impossible.

Crumbling the paper, Sakura stared at the woman on the bed, her mind whirling in confusion. This couldn't really be happening.

Even while her conscious mind refused to believe it, her unconscious mind accepted the weird fact that she was in 1929.

Everything around her screamed of the past. Syaoran's declarations, unusual suit, and dated speech patterns weren't the only clues. She'd just ignored the rest in order to survive. Looking back, she realized she'd refused to acknowledge that the seacoast had changed drastically. The beach she'd played on had whiter sand, was better manicured and filled with miles of condos or homes interspersed with hotels. From Atlantic City to Cape May Courthouse, there was hardly a spot she could walk for five minutes without at least seeing a building somewhere. And she'd bet the coast looked like that all the way down to Florida. No mater how far they were from Cape May, they should have seen some sign of civilization in a four- or five-hour walk.

And then there was the water and road traffic.

Or the lack of it.

She'd always seen barges from her window at the house. Here, she'd seen one yacht. And there were no cars. That was unusual in itself. The road was just beyond the dunes. At least that was where it was when she lived here.

Then there was the problem of Clair. As much as Sakura hated to admit it, Clair had attended the same costume party on the yacht as Syaoran. First, she wore a garter belt. Sakura had seen it earlier when they rescued her from the sea. Second, she had a hairpin—the wide, spindly kind Sakura's grandmother had worn to keep large rolls of hair in place. Clair's hairpin had clung tenaciously to a stiffen curl. A hairpin. Sakura knew only a few women who wore garter belts and no one who used hairpins.

If she wasn't in 1929, there was definitely something wrong here. And Sakura felt she was the only one not in on the joke—or the information. She was the only one who didn't quite fit in.

Footsteps, one heavy, one not, echoed in the outer room. It was Syaoran, she could tell. He still had one shoe on and one shoe off.

What difference did it make that he might be insane? For the matter, she could be the one off the deep end. Right now, what she needed most was his comforting, warm male body holding her and telling her everything was going to be all right.

When he stood in the doorway of the bedroom, she walked into his embrace, unable to stifle the small mouse like squeak that came from her throat. Gently wrapping his arms around her, he bent his head to hers. They clung to each other and comforted their weary souls.

If Syaoran was insane, so was she.


End file.
